


full marks

by coriandrumsativum



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: D/s overtones, I'm punching my ticket to hell, Illya gets off on annoying Solo, Illya gets off on other things, M/M, Not literally, Orgasm Delay/Denial, a little bit of voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 08:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coriandrumsativum/pseuds/coriandrumsativum
Summary: Illya is gentle with him, regardless of what Solo wants.





	full marks

Illya is going to _kill_ him.

They've been at it for hours — _hours_ —and all he has to show for it is an increasingly painful erection because _Illya_ wants to take it _slow_. Wants it to _last._ Wants to see how long Napoleon can stay _conscious_ when all of his _blood_ is in his _cock._

He's not exactly small to start with, if he does say so himself, and if he gets any harder something's going to burst. At this point, the orgasm alone might kill him, if Illya lets him live long enough to experience it.

_God._

Where the hell had Illya learned this sort of _patience?_

He tries to ask, but no, there's not nearly enough left in his brain for words. 

“Okay, Cowboy?” Illya asks, low and amused, then keeps him from answering by skimming his fingers over the sensitive skin between groin and thigh. He can't help the shiver that runs through him at that, and Illya smiles. It's not even a smirk, god damn him. He's genuinely _happy_ that he can elicit these reactions, genuinely _pleased_ that he can show someone a good time, genuinely goddamned _content_ that he can torture Napoleon like this. 

He's not like this with Gaby, that's for sure. Gaby, he listens to. Gaby, he pleases the way she wants. Gaby, he treats with all the reverence and obedience befitting a dutiful subject. If Gaby wants him to fuck her hard and rough, he will.

Napoleon, on the other hand, Illya will simply _tease_ until he _dies._

The morning had started out so promising, too. He'd woken up sprawled out in the luxurious bed of one of their hotel’s most decadent suites, with golden light on his eyelids and Illya’s mouth on his cock. They were supposed to have been assigned a nondescript and unremarkable room, but apparently the nondescript and unremarkable wing had suffered some sort of plumbing malfunction and they'd been precipitously upgraded to an enormous suite with two king beds. Terribly unfortunate, really. Just dreadful.

And he'd _thought_ that Illya was in a more direct mood, given how soon after he’d had three wonderful fingers in him, working him open with just the right balance of intention and lube. (He doesn't mind it rough, he really doesn't, but it’s always so much more pleasurable with lube, and Illya doesn’t skimp.) But then, just as he’d started to want more, Illya had pulled out entirely – leaving him wet and open and barely on the right side of wanton – and gone to wash his hands.

He'd come back, swallowed Napoleon down in a single showy go, and slipped a ring around the base of his cock while he was distracted. 

“You can't be serious,” Napoleon had said, torn between frustration and fascination, when he’d realized what had happened. They had never done this before, for all that Illya routinely pushed him to the edge and kept him there inhumanly long.

“Perfectly,” Illya had said simply, and kissed him until he’d forgotten what he was upset about. 

Illya gets off twice – once by his own hand, and once by settling his hips over Napoleon’s and rutting against him with long, rolling thrusts for ten delectable, infuriating minutes – and each time he cleans them both up and waits out his refractory period by padding around the suite stark naked and _stretching_. Bastard.

Napoleon knows by now to stay where he is, enjoying the respite and the softness of the bed and doing his best to infuriate Illya in return. So he arranges himself artfully and tries to look disinterested, rolls onto his side to show off the expanse of his back but drapes the sheet tantalizingly over the dip of his tailbone. His cock is killing him – he would have come at _least_ once by now – but he’s starting to see the appeal of Illya’s idea. He’ll be so full by the time they’re done, and maybe Illya will slip a pair of his silk briefs onto him and let him ruin them. His cock jumps at the idea, and a solid, warm hand wraps around it. Illya settles into bed behind him and kisses him behind the ear. 

"Thinking about me?” he asks huskily. Napoleon swallows.

“Bernini, actually,” he lies, and Illya chuckles.

“Oh, no,” he murmurs, giving a slow, languorous pull. “We both know that this belongs to me.” He strokes him again, kisses him again. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, all humor fled. “So beautiful. So perfect. I will show you how beautiful you are.”

He starts where he is, pressing kisses to that sensitive spot behind his ear and working his way down, whispering endearments as he goes. He tells Napoleon about his hair, his skin, his jaw, his neck. He speaks in breathy, lyrical Russian about the slope of his shoulder, the curves and valleys of the muscles in his arms. He lets go of Napoleon’s cock to bring Napoleon’s hand up by his shoulder and kiss each one of his fingers and whisper about their length, their dexterity, their skill. He ghosts warm breaths against the side of his neck as he runs a hand down the taut line of his side, the tapering point of his waist, the sharp jut of his hip bone.

And the whole time, his cock is pressed against the rift of Napoleon’s ass, taunting him in its fullness and stillness. 

Illya only pauses once, when his hand is low on Napoleon’s waist and Napoleon tries to come but can’t, hips stuttering pathetically and balls tightening excruciatingly. Illya soothes him through it, tells him how wonderful it will be in the end, how stunning he’ll be.

It really doesn't help.

Gaby comes in just as Illya’s hand starts to map its way across his pelvis, getting maddeningly close to his cock but not yet touching it. His thigh is between Napoleon’s but he’s not moving, just pressing them together. He hears the door click open and then shut again, hears Gaby’s high-heeled footsteps crossing the suite to the open French doors of the bedroom. Hears, but doesn't particularly care, because Illya’s hand finally grazes his cock and it's heaven and hell and not nearly enough of either.

“Hello there,” she says warmly from behind them. “Glad to see you two are taking advantage of the upgrade.” 

“The hotel staff have been most accommodating,” Illya agrees pleasantly, and brushes his fingers against Napoleon’s balls. Napoleon groans. Illya kisses his neck to quiet him, then twists his head away to look back at Gaby – and, from the sound of it, to kiss her as well.

“He looks good like this,” Gaby observes. “The ring is a nice touch.”

“The mission was tiring,” Illya explains, withdrawing his hand to start massaging Napoleon’s thigh with a firm, warm grip. “I did not want him to have to work too hard to restrain himself.”

“Very considerate,” Gaby says, a smile in her voice. Her footsteps draw closer, and she bends over Illya to drop a kiss on Napoleon’s sweaty temple. “Are you having fun?”

“No,” he says. God, his voice is throaty. Illya’s cock twitches against his ass, though, so point to him. “Illya’s trying to kill me.” 

Gaby just brushes a lock of hair out of his eyes. “Be nice,” she tells Illya. “We need him for later."

“I will,” Illya promises. “But he is not used to people being nice to him, and so he complains.”

The sad thing is, he can't really argue with that. No one’s ever been as thorough with him as Illya is, not while being so gentle at the same time. Illya’s hand is sliding around to the inside of his thigh, though, so now wouldn't be the time to argue even if he wanted to. 

“Mind if I stay?” Gaby asks. “I just want to read the paper, so I can take the other bed.”

“There's room on this one,” Illya offers. The two of them back to chest like this barely take up half, and Gaby’s small. Illya’s lips are at the back of his neck again, mouthing his way down towards his shoulder blade. 

“Napoleon?”

“You can stay.”

He closes his eyes then, because Illya’s hand is cupping his balls, the rough callouses doing terrible things to the thin skin as he rolls them between his fingers, but he can hear her shucking out of the stiff fabric of her dress and rummaging around in her drawer. Of the three of them, she's decidedly the messiest, preferring to dump the contents of her suitcase into a single dresser drawer rather than sort the clothing and hang it up. Illya always goes through afterwards and saves the important things from death by wrinkles, which is probably part of the reason she does it. He doesn't really have a lot of room to criticize her neatness right now, though, given what he and Illya have done – and are continuing to do – to the bedclothes.

The mattress dips just slightly as she climbs onto the open half, probably in a soft stolen shirt and not much else, and there’s the crisp shake of a newspaper being opened.

Illya bites – _gently_ , always so fucking _gently_ – at the junction of his shoulder and neck and dips his fingers lower to skate across his opening.

Napoleon’s hips jerk, and he can't stop the sharp gasp that escapes him any more than he can stop his eyes from snapping open.

Gaby turns a page in her newspaper and crosses her ankles. She’s not looking at them, but there's no way she doesn't see them.

“Do you need to come soon?” Illya asks. It's an honest question, not a taunt, not a challenge, and he knows that if he said yes, Illya would let him. But he’s already heady with anticipation, and wants to see how far he can push it. Also, quite frankly, he wants to come for _days._

“Sometime today would be nice,” he says, striving for insouciance but falling abysmally short. Illya has to know what his hands do to him, goddamn it, he _has_ to.

“Cowboy."

“I want it to be worth it,” he says as his hips stutter again, cock straining for friction it can’t find. “I can wait a while longer."

"Okay,” Illya says. “It will be worth it, I promise. Now, roll over.”

They trade luxurious kisses for a while, tangled up in one another as Illya starts up a slow, self-indulgent rhythm with his hips. Eventually Illya ends up on top, braced on his elbows and breathing hard but not breaking that infuriating pace. He never ruts dry, always keeps them slicked with lube, and the hot slide of his cock against Napoleon’s is enough to set his toes curling and his core tightening. Illya stops before he finishes, though, and Napoleon’s not actually sure who’s more disappointed.

But then he’s ordering Napoleon to bring his knees up, and those slick fingers are back where he wants them, circling his entrance before pushing in and working him open again. He's still a bit loose from the last time, but Illya starts with one and works his way up until Napoleon’s pushing back against them and hating himself for how much he _wants_.

“I will take ring off soon,” Illya tells him, “but you are not allowed to make a mess on the sheets.” Napoleon’s eyes nearly roll back in his head at that, and Gaby shifts ever so slightly on the mattress beside him.

“Underwear,” he suggests breathlessly, because he _loves_ coming in them, loves the pulse of his cock in the confines of tight fabric, loves how they tent obscenely around him and fill up so thick and wet. “Silk.”

“Yes,” Illya agrees, and Napoleon knows he's not imagining the tightness in his voice. Illya loves to watch Napoleon come in his pants almost as much as Napoleon loves to do it. Illya pushes himself off the bed returns very quickly with a wad of fabric in his hand. He tosses it to onto the bed, revealing a promisingly small amount of grey silk, but when Napoleon starts to reach for them, Illya stops him.

“Not yet,” he says, and his eyes are calm and deep and fuck, Napoleon would trust him with the world right now, let alone this simple request. “On your side,” he says softly. “Move towards the center, but don’t bother Gaby.”

He works his way over and settles in the very center of the mattress, eyes level with the smooth sweep of Gaby’s thigh. He wants to kiss it, but she's reading, and it could lead to more distraction than any of them really wants right now. She settles a hand in his hair, but doesn't acknowledge him further.

The mattress creaks as Illya climbs back in behind him and hooks an ankle over his, pulling them flush together. The line of Illya’s cock is hot and hard against his ass, but he’s somehow found the time to roll on a condom and slick it with lube. It's like the thinks Napoleon’s going to _break._

Illya taps his top leg. “Move this, please,” he says, and Napoleon bends it obligingly, bringing his knee up by his chest. Illya shifts his leg up over Napoleon’s hip, then leverages their thighs together and pushes into him with one long, slow, thrust. It always hurts a little, even after so much prep, but it’s hardly anything compared to the relief of finally being filled.

“Good?” Illya asks, once he’s bottomed out and given them both a few moments to breathe.

“Very,” Napoleon manages. Illya’s not quite as thick as he is, but he's thick enough, and long, and he fits Napoleon perfectly at this angle.

“Good,” Illya says, and starts to move. It's exactly like before, with languid rolling thrusts that do nothing but infuriate, but it's better – so much better – with Illya finally inside him. It's been _hours_ , after all. He lets himself go loose, reveling in the pure sensation and not doing anything to hurry it along.

Eventually, though, even the novelty of Illya’s cock wears off, and those languid, rolling thrusts become tantalizingly insufficient. He wants to clench, to drive Illya insane the way he's being driven insane, but he knows that Illya will just stop moving if he does that, or even pull out entirely, so he restrains himself.

But then Illya hitches his leg higher over Napoleon's hips and manages to get even deeper, and the new angle hits him just so. He groans, deep and chesty and wanton, and Illya’s rhythm finally falters. Gaby’s hand tightens in his hair. “Do that again,” she says, to either or both of them, and they do. “He's gorgeous like this,” she says quietly, carding her fingers through Napoleon’s hair. “You can't see, Illya, but he's perfect.”

“I don't need to see,” Illya says huskily, and kisses the base of his neck before sliding his hand around Napoleon’s hip to press against his pelvis, just above his cock. “He's always beautiful.”

He picks up the rhythm again and comes not long after, pressing his chest against Napoleon’s back and sighing his relief against his ear. Napoleon can feel the pulses of his cock inside him, even if he can't feel the come. Illya always wears a condom, even though Napoleon’s never asked him to, or told him how much he appreciates it.

“Are you ready?” he asks when he's back in himself, and cups Napoleon’s cock in one huge, warm, stupidly _gentle_ hand.

“Yes,” Napoleon breathes. _“Please.”_

Illya leans around to kiss him properly, then pulls out carefully, leaving Napoleon cold and empty. He makes a small sound at the sudden absence, but Gaby strokes his hair again and he lets himself be mollified.

Then there’s a soft touch against his foot, and he lifts it off the bed to let Illya slip the grey silk around it and slide it up his leg. It takes some maneuvering to get it over the other leg, still bent up by his chest, but Illya knows what he's doing. Illya tucks his erection under the waistband last, and the fabric is head-spinningly tight against it, straining to keep it contained. The pressure alone is delicious, but then Illya settles in behind him again and palms him through the fabric and _oh_. Even better. 

Illya’s hands are warm and strong, his palm firm and his fingers sure, and the slide of silk across him and the heat of Illya’s hand around him— Now he’s the one rolling his hips, trying to find a rhythm against Illya’s touch. Illya lets him, keeps his strokes smooth and regular, and soon Napoleon’s rutting shamelessly against his hand. He feels his orgasm mounting, feels his cock leaking furiously and the fabric by the tip growing wet. The ring is still tight around the base but he knows Illya will let him come this time.

He’s well beyond words, reduced to grunts and gasps, when Illya lifts his hand away. “Ring off now,” he says, voice low and soft in response to Napoleon’s frustrated groan. “Just a bit longer, and then you can come.” He slips his hand beneath the waistband of the briefs and finds the catch that will open the ring. There's a soft click, and suddenly he’s free. He needs to take several deep breaths while thinking about geological strata to keep himself from coming while Illya’s hand is still in there, but Illya seems to have anticipated this, and holds himself very, very still. 

“Okay,” Napoleon rasps after a few more seconds, and Illya slips his hand out, the metal of the ring dragging across his skin on the way up.

“Well done,” Illya praises, and kisses his jaw. “Such good control. But you can let go now, любовь.” He takes hold of Napoleon’s cock through the fabric and starts stroking him in earnest. “No more control,” he murmurs, “no more waiting. You did so well for me, now let me take care of you.”

Napoleon nods, unable to speak, and Illya kisses him again. Then he grinds his palm down between Napoleon’s legs, rubbing heat and fabric all the way to the tip of his cock, and Napoleon jerks forward and _comes_ , shooting furiously into the fabric cupped in Illya’s hand, feeling it grow warm and damp in seconds but he's not done, not even close to being done. He groans as wave after wave tears through him, and it's agony and ecstasy all rolled into one because the silk is tight and Illya’s hand is gripping his tighter still, the briefs are already full and sticky and wet but the sheer release feels so _good_ and he never wants it to stop.

Illya works him through it, strokes him until he’s dry but he’s still coming, cock pulsing even after there’s nothing left and it hurts, but it's been _hours_ and even the pain feels good.

He's never been one to black out completely, but his vision gets gray and fuzzy and his mind and his body grow a bit distant from each other for a little while.

He feels Illya rolling him carefully onto his back, sliding a hand under his hips to lift them while the other gently peels the underwear off, holding them carefully to keep the mess within contained. He fades out for a while then, soft voices washing over him and the soft mattress cradling him.

When he comes back, Illya’s sitting on the edge of the bed, wiping the sweat from his face with a damp cloth. There’s a sheet pulled up to his waist, but he knows that he’s been cleaned down there, as well. 

“Doing okay?” Illya asks softly. Napoleon just smiles. He won't be able to do words for a while, but Illya knows this. “Sore?” Napoleon shakes his head. “Cold?” Another head shake. “Tired?” A nod. “Water?” A nod, and Illya puts down the cloth to pick up a glass of water from the bedside table. He slips a hand under Napoleon’s head to help him drink, then lowers it back to the pillows. “Do you want me to stay?” He nods, and Illya lifts the sheet to climb in beside him.

Napoleon rolls onto his side, putting his back to Illya, and Illya wraps his arms around him from behind, tucking Napoleon’s shoulder under his chin. “You were wonderful,” he murmurs. “You did so well. So perfect, so beautiful.” He slips into Russian, and Napoleon’s too far gone to understand but it doesn't matter because he knows he’s safe in Illya’s arms, knows he's safe and protected and loved. Gaby’s still stretched out on the other side of the bed, newspaper forgotten but eyes full of fondness. He sees her as his eyes drift shut, feels her fingers in his hair one last time.

He sleeps, secure in the knowledge that he’ll wake up himself and that neither Illya nor Gaby will think any less of him for the things they did. He did well, and for now, that's all he cares about.

**Author's Note:**

> If I recall correctly, someone requested more mess, so naturally I obliged bc I'm garbage.
> 
> And now for real talk: Napoleon has definitely been sexually abused during his time in the CIA, and Illya and Gaby know it. They never talk about it, but they know, and they do everything they can to avoid reminding him of those times. That's why Illya is so gentle with him – Napoleon’s used to being taken hard and rough, and he's convinced himself he likes it, but Illya knows better – and why Gaby’s there as well (to help him remember he's with his partners rather than with someone else). The D/S dynamic is less about Illya wanting to be in control and more about him realizing that Napoleon sinks into this headspace no matter what, and needs to be taken care of when he's vulnerable like that.


End file.
